From Which No One Drinks
by Tracy Space Cowgirl
Summary: Scott walks into a bar…to deal with issues that have been haunting him.


From Which No One Drinks

By Tracy (biancaheart@yahoo.com)

Character: Scott

Universe: Movie Verse

Rating: PG-13 

Disclaimer:  The X-Men belong to Marvel, 20th Century Fox, and such.  I don't own them, and I'm not trying to make a profit.  No suing, please.

Summary: Scott walks into a bar…to deal with issues that have been haunting him.

A glass from which no one drinks.

Today should be a celebration.  I should be laughing and smiling, joking and laughing with your friends.  Toasting your birthday.

I should be celebrating.

I would have bought a gift.  A beer at this run-down excuse for a bar, while appreciated, wouldn't be enough.  Something that required thought.  A gift that years from now, you'd look at and say "Yup, that was from Scott.  He was always thinking.  Really knew a person.  Cared enough to send the very best."

Shit, that makes me sound like Hallmark.

Wishful thinking makes a man a wuss.

I often wonder what it would be like if you were here.

I wonder what I would be like.  Things seemed easier when you were here.  It wasn't perfect…but you, you gave me strength simply by being you.  I never knew how much I needed that.  I lost that, when you died.  It was as if the world was pulled out form under me, and whoomp, I'm flat on my ass.  Dazed and confused, not really sure where to go.  

Maybe I'm still not.

At times I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders.  Dreams, plans, and hopes- for two lives- died that horrible day.  And I'm the only one that still remembers them.  They haunt me.  I bear the responsibility of living all of them, and I fail horribly.

I get mad that I was the survivor?

Why do you get the easy road?  I look at the world, and the destruction and horror that punctuates it.  What did I do to deserve this?  Were you a better person?  Was this my punishment?  And why wasn't I…why didn't I die right along beside you?

Most men fear death.   I fear living.

I get angry.  Angry at God, angry at myself, angry at the past.  Angry to be angry.

Why couldn't I save you?

I would have given my life for you. 

I still would, in a second.

Why didn't I get a choice?

Why isn't anything ever easy?

Nothing in my life ever is.  I've come to accept it as a de facto declaration of life, according to Scott Summers.  Life sucks.  It's a bitch.  Nothing ever changes.

I'd love to live a normal life.  I'd love to be Mr. Friendly, walking around, smiling and kissing babies.  Dazzle and amaze people that I'm so laid back and go with the flow.

Smiles are hard to fake when you've been where I've been, seen what I've seen.

I wish I could let go of all my fears, and just let someone in.  I shut myself off, keep to a small group of familiar people that work their asses off to get to know me.  I know some people think I'm boring, or reserved, or rude.  But it's hard to let people in.   To let them see the man behind the visor, to see my scars.

And when I do get to know somebody…I fear.

I fear that they will betray me.

I fear they will leave me behind.

I fear that they will leave me alone.

And in a large mansion full of people, I am completely and utterly alone.

Her name was Jean.  I told you about her.  

She was the love of my life, and she ended up saving mine.

And died.

I was in a plane- why do all the terrible things in my life involve planes.

Our live wasn't easy, but I can honestly say it was better with you here.

This tradition- of sitting here, talking to you, started longer ago than I care to admit.  I stopped thinking about how old you would be, because it hurts too much.

It started with chocolate milk.  Two glasses- one for you and one for me.  I chugged mine down, and let yours sit there and sweat.  I'd raise a toast to the empty air.  My foster parents would yell at me for wasting food and ruining the furniture.

I never liked them much any way.

I moved on to beer when I was fifteen.

And every year, I'm glad that my ruby glasses attract attention.  People think I'm weird because of my appearance. 

No one's ever noticed that I sit alone, with a drink that I don't touch.

I guess, I keep on hoping that one year, you'd walk in, chug the drink down, and ask for another.

Happy Birthday, Alex.

I'll see you next year.

**_Author's Note/Dedication:_**

_I've included this at the end of the fic, for it's slightly spoilery- in tone._

_After X2, I've become addicted to all things X-men.   And though my knowledge, as is my trade paperback collection as well as my comic collections, have grown significantly, I'm still not sure how to "write" that Scott.  Which is why this is movie-verse Scott, who I feel I know a little better._

_Since the origin of movie Scott is unclear (the X1 novel said one thing, the X2 said another), I've given him my own hybrid of a past, gleaning the comic book history. So basically, after the death of his family, he was tossed around in foster home hell._

_While I do feel that Scott grieves for Jean, I can identify more with his feelings for Alex.  This coming Wednesday would have been my little brother's 18th birthday, if he was still alive.  _

_  
And on Wednesday, I'll let his glass set and sweat._

_  
Dedicated to Troy---I miss you every single day._


End file.
